


Logic Eludes

by MoiraStardust



Category: Overwatch (Video Game), Star Trek
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/F, Moicy, Ocampan!Angela, Vulcan!Moira, basically a crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22198255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoiraStardust/pseuds/MoiraStardust
Summary: Moira was perfectly fine to remain on the ship, simply fulfilling her duties and returning to Vulcan, but after they become stranded in the delta quadrant and subsequently encounter an alien species called the Ocampans, she finds she can no longer rely on logic alone.
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Logic Eludes

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this fic stems from a post I made on tumblr:(https://janegayz.tumblr.com/post/189234049017/consider-this)  
> The image of a vulcan moira and an ocampan Angela simply would NOT leave my mind.  
> If you’re curious about the setting, it’s in the same time period Voyager takes place, and their ship just happens to stumble across the ocampans as well.  
> (Will have more chapters, just can’t figure out how to make that obvious because AO3 is being difficult)

Everything she did revolved around her supreme logic she loved so, every move was calculated, every breath was predetermined, she was perfectly content to live her life the way only a vulcan could. No strand of fiery hair was left astray, her dual stare was always bright, and her skin was never too green. Her uniform was always straight, always tucked in so thoroughly, her pips and her shoes shining even in the dim light of her quarters. If not for the eyes and the hair, one might consider her an exemplar vulcan.

So why, then, was logic failing her? Ever since that ocampan had joined their crew—the small, lively, bubbly alien had taken to the ship nicely, had been welcomed to her quarters, had even taken up medical practices. Ever since she—since  _ Angela  _ had joined them, she could no longer focus. There was something about her, something she carried with her, something that merited a pause in the hallway or a lingering gaze during a debriefing. It was all so illogical, nothing about it made sense, she didn’t understand just  _ what  _ was wrong with her. It was something a hypospray didn’t fix, and her meditation had always led her to think about Angela—the way her golden hair bounced as she walked, the glimmer in her sapphire gaze, the smile she always adorned. 

Maybe that was why she found herself making small excuses to draw out the time of their telepathy training, because Angela was pleasing to look at. 

When she had first agreed to train Angela, it had been under orders from her captain,  _ Morrison.  _ He knew that ocampans had unseen potential, and naturally, it seemed, Moira was the candidate to coax this potential out. 

Their first session, and the next—subsequently, all of the sessions within that first month—had been strictly business, there was no small talk, it always started with a trained,  _ “your mind to my mind, your thoughts to my thoughts”,  _ and ended with a curt nod and a thank you, courtesy of Angela.

But somewhere along the line, it had changed, and there were smiles from Angela, and appraising gazes from Moira. When she brought her fingers to Angela’s face, she was not so determined as she had been in the beginning. She was curious about the feel of her skin, it was so soft, and her ears were a genetic marvel. She found herself welcoming Angela’s small talk, and she was eager to answer the questions she had. 

Her quarters, standard senior officer housing, were more than sufficient for their training. The lights were always dimmed—she was sensitive to light, doubly so after the mishap with her eyes. Candles were strewn across the room, and apart from a few paintings and padds, the quarters were barren. She saw no need for extra, it was always  _ extra,  _ she deemed, unnecessary and strenuous. 

Angela had pointed it out one day, taking in the room in more detail than usual, as Moira stood near the door and tucked in her jacket more tightly. Angela had caught her off guard. 

“It is very bare,” she mused, stretching an arm out to touch the sad desk. While she no longer wore her traditional ocampan garbs, her Starfleet uniform was never really worn the way it was  _ supposed _ to be worn. She left the jacket open in the middle, showing off the grey undershirt and the lack of pips, because really, she wasn’t a  _ real  _ member of Starfleet. It didn’t bother Moira. It was illogical, yes, but it wasn’t unwelcome. She was fascinated by the sharp juxtaposition of their style of dress, of their height, of their anatomy. 

Moira had pushed her shoulders back and tilted her chin up, striding with three long steps to Angela’s side. “Anything else is unnecessary.” Her tone wasn’t harsh, never. 

Angela had looked back to her with a chiding smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling in the motion. “I will bring you something from my quarters the next time we train.” 

Now Moira sat at her desk, dual stare focused on the trinket Angela had given her. It was odd, definitely alien, but she appreciated the beauty of it. It reminded her of Angela. 

She sat as rigid as her emotional output, but her jacket had been neatly discarded and folded on the end of her bed. Her combadge was fitted neatly to the standard grey turtleneck.

It was illogical to spend her time like this, instead of meditating, but she found that she was drawn to the object. When she was away from Angela, she felt a primal need to be in her presence, something akin to the deep longing one felt during their pon farr. Perhaps she felt something deeper than friendship, she was willing to at least consider that, because it had been a little over a year now, and their training sessions were . . . atypical. 

She let out a careful breath and outstretched her hand, brushing the pads of her fingers along the smooth surface of the trinket. It didn’t resemble anything she was familiar with, but that unfamiliarity wasn’t unwelcome. She wondered at the significance to Angela, its place on her world. 

Before she could pick it up to study it closer, her door chimed. Within a second she was standing up, smoothing out the tightly tucked in undershirt and dropping her arms to her sides. “Come in.” 

As the door hissed open, her mismatched eyes quickly focused on the small figure standing there. She waited, and Angela hesitantly stepped in, listening for the door to close. She wore her usual turquoise Starfleet uniform, but her hair was down for once. The bony ear on the left side worked as a clip to keep it out of her eyes, but the right side resembled a halo as it fell freely against her shoulders. She seemed to strain for a second, as if rooting through her mind for something to say, and then she smiled in the only way she could; warm and bright.

_ ‘How are you?’  _ She had skipped verbal communication entirely, and Moira was momentarily taken aback by the little voice singing through her head. She wasn’t at all displeased, quite the opposite, and she relaxed her stance just a bit. This was usually the easiest way to assure to Angela that she was not mad, being as a smile would be the next best thing, and, well, you know. 

_ ‘I am well.’  _ She set her jaw when Angela closed the distance between them, snaking her arms around her impossibly thin waist. It wasn’t unwelcome, nothing ever was when it was Angela, but she was certainly a bit surprised. Overt displays of affection were not . . . she was not accustomed to them. Still, after a moment, she reciprocated gently. She didn’t know what was rising between them, but she was inclined not to acknowledge it. 

_ ‘That’s wonderful.’  _ Without another word, Angela extracted herself from Moira and made her way to the neatly-made, barely used bed, lowering to settle comfortably on it. Her bright eyes traced the room curiously, adjusting to the darkness, and then she looked back to Moira.  _ ‘I have some time before my next shift. I was wondering if you wanted to join me on the holodeck?’  _

Moira had been standing perfectly still before, her breathing slow and calm, but at this proposition, she felt her heart jerk. She masked it with a careful arch of her brow, a tilt of her head.  _ ‘Curious. Why?’ _

If she were at all less attuned to her feelings or emotions, she would’ve missed the slight bit of unsure that flashed through Angela’s features. She made an effort to relax her posture to assure Angela that there was nothing to be nervous about, though she certainly felt the beginnings of butterflies knotting in her stomach. Deciding that she needed something to hold onto, she backstepped to her desk and leaned against it.

“Something to do?” They both seemed surprised by the change in medium for their communication, and Angela blushed at the slip up. She seemed mortified by this, so Moira decided to save her the embarrassment and act as though she didn’t notice. 

“I see. Just give me a moment to get my jacket—“

“No!” Again, Angela seemed surprised by herself, and she shrank in her boots a little. Moira had already turned around, but at this, she looked imploringly to Angela. “I-I mean, just wear that. It looks nice on you.” 

Moira was a tad bit perplexed; it was just the standard issue grey turtleneck, standard pants, standard boots. She had tucked in the shirt tightly, because otherwise, anything looked baggy on her, and she had polished her shoes and pips. Perhaps Angela preferred seeing  _ more  _ of her? The usual Starfleet jacket—black and teal, because she was the chief geneticist—offered much to the imagination; loose-fitting, and black. She hesitated for a moment, her pointed brows arching in the unique way that they did, and then she straightened and nodded her head. 

“Alright.” Immediately, she began to walk towards the door, watching it swish open and paying no mind to if Angela was following or not. The holodecks were not close, so they had time to talk, but she was not accustomed to, ‘small talk’. 

Angela, it seems, was content to shuffle to her side and try to match her even, long strides. 

_ ‘What were you doing when I entered your quarters? Was I interrupting your work?’  _

At this question, Moira tilted her head to regard the suddenly-interesting bulkhead, her pale greenish-yellow cheeks, nose, and ears turning a deep green. Yes. The ship was running efficiently. The walls were clean. No visible fingerprints across the panels. 

There was a small prod against her side and she looked back to Angela, and she didn’t miss the realization in her icy gaze. If Angela saw the blush, she said nothing, and Moira thanked the Gods that Captain Morrison was standing in the hallway with Commander Reyes, the perfect distraction from the question at hand.

Sure enough, they struck up a conversation with Angela, giving Moira enough pause to conduct herself and to settle from the embarrassment. 

She folded her arms behind her back, expression as impassive as ever. She longed for the logical response from her body that she was so accustomed to; this was erratic. She felt as though she was going through the pon farr, though that was three years away. 

Angela was just . . . incredibly intriguing. Her unique bone structure, her brilliant blue eyes, the way her mind worked . . . 

Moira would never admit it, but she greatly enjoyed melding with her; the brief passes of barely repressed untouched  _ power  _ emanating from Angela was electrifying. Spending time with her was quite stimulating. 

“Lieutenant.” Morrison acknowledged as he passed, Reyes in tow with a padd in his hand. Moira nodded curtly, and then her dual stare shifted to Angela, who was looking at her curiously. 

“Are you ready?” 

Moira regarded her with a smile that was present in her eyes but not her mouth, and she once again continued their walk, this time with the apprehension that her interest in Angela may exceed just a curious fascination.


End file.
